The Circular Room
by xfsox
Summary: Watson and Holmes find themselves at the strange mercy of a certain professor. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

The Circular Room

xXx

The weather had turned from one of the bitterest winters London had seen in some years to a chilly spring and I'd just left my lodgings on Baker Street, taking the first long walk I'd been able to manage since the snows began in December.

I still remember Holmes' last words to me on that fateful day. "Stay away from the dice tables now, Watson. Rent's due tomorrow."

How that annoyed that me, if only because he knew me so well. Looking back, perhaps he'd had a feeling, a premonition of sorts but he'd be the first one to rule out such a theory as superstitious nonsense.

I didn't reply to him, opting instead to leave without a word. And I did avoid the dice tables, deciding to head to the impromptu card games instead. _That will show him_, I thought spitefully, tossing my money in for a few rounds.

As is typical of my luck, I won most of the hands I played. Atypically, I decided to leave well enough alone and exit the game, throwing down the customary amount for drinks all around. Everything seemed all right and I was in a fine mood when a young man standing in the doorway waved for my attention.

"You forgot something, guv."

Automatically, I checked for my wallet, hat and cane. "I think I have everything."

His smile was thin when he held up a card. It was the ace of spades and he flung it at me with extraordinary accuracy. Its sharp corner nicked my cheek and I stared at him in confusion, wondering if the man was mad or just stupid. To attack another man with a playing card ...

That's when the poison laced over the card's edge hit me.

The world around me blurred and tilted. My legs went out from under me and I remember nothing from that point until my awakening, lying the floor of a swift moving carriage, my arms bound behind me, gagged and my eyes covered with a blindfold. Confusion swarmed through my still-woozy brain, followed by a cold terror.

For some reason the blindfold bothered me the most and I tried desperately to dislodge it, to no avail. The futility of the exercise forced calm upon me and I lay very still, using what senses I had available to understand my situation.

The carriage was moving too fast for a mere cab, so a hansom it was. After a few minutes of feeling around, my fingers touched a leather shoe and I flinched, realizing I wasn't alone. On the sharper turns, the shoes would press into the small of my back, as if for balance and I fought against a wave of nausea, which would certainly choke me if I gave into it.

I don't know how long the ride lasted but once we reached our destination, rough hands pulled me from the carriage and practically lifted me up what felt like an endless round of stairs. My hands were untied and I put up a violent, if ineffective struggle, succeeding only in gaining myself a breathtaking hit to the stomach that left my lying on the floor gasping for air.

The blindfold was the last to go. I sat up and blinked in the too-bright light. To my surprise I found myself in a room, a strangely cozy room that reminded me of any other pleasant bedroom, with bookcases, a small table, soft chairs and a day bed. There were generic landscapes resting on the walls, hanging a little crookedly, as the walls weren't flat.

They were rounded. Everything was oddly round and it took me a few more minutes to realize the room was perfectly circular, without an apparent entrance or exit. Windowless as well and I never remember feeling quite the terror I did at that moment, in that strange, faceless prison.

Pulling myself into a chair, I fought to calm the terrified pounding of my heart. This was something so extraordinary, none of our usual foes could have dreamed this up, let alone executed it. I wracked my brain to think as to the who ... whys ... and wheres of my situation when I felt a hand on my shoulder, surprising me so badly, I nearly fell from the chair.

The only thing that was more frightening was when I realized who was standing there. A man I'd had known only by Holmes' description, but that description was singular enough for me to understand exactly what horror I was dealing with.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," Professor Moriarty said, his voice as smooth as velvet. "Welcome to my room."

---

_Holmes POV_

He had been gone for six hours, twelve minutes and eighteen ... nineteen ... seconds.

He had been irritated with me, which accounted for two of the hours, tacked onto the one and a half he would have normally spent out at the gambling house. Punishing me with his absence was one of Watson's little ploys and an effective one, but nothing I couldn't anticipate and measure.

Two and a half hours were still unaccounted for.

Something was wrong. He had either gotten himself lost - highly unlikely - or met with injury or foul play. Considering where he'd been, the latter seemed more possible. Strange still, as Watson can handle himself perfectly well against any of the dregs that habituate the less reputable houses. Few of them will take the business end of his cane more than once, the rest having learned the hard way that the kind-eyed doctor with the limp is not to be trifled with.

This left even less attractive options open.

He had been taken, by who or what I didn't yet know. It wouldn't take long, however, to find out.

His cane arrived by messenger at exactly seven o'clock in the evening. It was wrapped in gilt paper, a garish bow on the end and I'm ashamed to admit my heart sank at the sight.

The note attached had a message scrawled over it in the careless hand of a professor. A mathematics professor. It merely read:

_I have a job for you, Mr. Holmes._

xXx

to be continued in Part Two ....


	2. Chapter 2

The Circular Room - Chapter Two

xXx

He poured the tea easily, as if we'd been acquaintances for years.

I sat stiff and silent. All of Holmes' warnings about this monster were racing through my mind and I glanced around for a weapon of some kind. Nothing, except for spoons and lukewarm tea and I saw his eyes sparkle with dark mirth.

"You think I'm an idiot." A statement, not a question. Much like Holmes would have put it. "Relax, Doctor. You are currently in no danger."

_Currently_. Even I wasn't dull enough not to understand the threat inherent in his phrasing. He nodded at my teacup and I ignored him. His thin lips turned back to his own tea which he sipped noisily, perhaps just to annoy me.

Just as Holmes might. "What do you think of my room?"

This I answered easily enough. "I think I'd like to leave it."

"You're impatient for a medical man." Another sloppy slurp. "This room is part of a problem I've been working on. A geometric problem. How did you do in math, Doctor?"

"I failed miserably," I lied, simply because the idea of enjoying mathematics suddenly made me ill. "You'll find little interest in speaking to me on the subject."

"Perhaps, but you only have it half right. Your thoughts on the science of kings are of no consequence - no offense, Doctor, I am an exceptional case - but I'm very much interested in your opinions on a great many subjects. Sherlock Holmes, for instance." His narrow hawk-eyes peered at me over the rim of his teacup. "What do you think he's doing right now?"

My heart skipped a beat and I schooled my face into an uncaring mask. "I have no idea. Sitting at home, I assume. We are merely roommates, sharing a flat for financial convenience."

He laughed then and it was an awful sound. "You truly think I'm an idiot. Ah, well. I see we can go no further tonight. Perhaps tomorrow." He rose, his spindly body unfolding like an insect's.

"Kidnapping is a crime," I reminded him coldly. "Let me go now and perhaps this can be forgotten."

"I don't think you'll be forgetting this ... forgetting _me_ ... anytime soon, Doctor Watson," he replied as he walked away, slipping his fingers into some unseen crevice in the curved walls and disappearing behind it, like a magician. His voice echoed from somewhere beyond the room. "Tomorrow, then."

I leapt after him. But it was too late. I searched in vain for the exit, seeing nothing but the slightest of cracks in the area from which he exited. Try as I might to pull at it, there was no give and I growled in frustration, banging against the wall like a madman, furious and thwarted.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook me and I'm ashamed to say I partook of the tea and the small offerings of food that were left there. I had half a mind to wreck the room simply for spite, but better sense prevailed and I lay down on the bed, forcing my mind to calmness. Thank heaven a little of my army training came to some use as I commanded myself to think -- think like Holmes might.

Impossible, really, but it was better than the alternatives. So, what would he have said had he been with me, my brilliant detective?

The answer was simple. Holmes would tell me to observe first, then record.

Record. Quickly, I felt around my jacket and found one of my little notebooks, still fresh and a pencil which, thankfully, hadn't been confiscated. Such small comforts, so gratefully received. Hand shaking, I licked at the pencil and wrote on the first page:

"_The Circular Prison. A Description_."

Not very artistic, but good enough. I had no idea what I'd do with such a record, but Holmes' advice had always been useful before. Besides, it was sure to be better than lying here in fear and enraged frustration, I thought, scribbling away at the clean page, making the first of many inventories of the items in the room.

I started with the bed I was laying on, describing in detail the linens and design, followed by a detailed accounting of the rug. A little while later I fell asleep, but not before making sure my precious notes were put away, far from any prying eyes. My dreams that night were a jumble of poisoned playing cards and narrow-eyed men relieved by only a momentary vision of Holmes telling me not to worry ... he would be there soon.

He was in his nightshirt, smoking his pipe and even though I knew it was no more than a dream, it comforted me more than words could possibly express.

xXx

_Holmes POV_

My instructions from Moriarty were long in coming.

I'd done nothing since the receipt of Watson's cane except sit and wait. No more could have been expected - had I run the breadth and width of London I would have succeeded in nothing but exhausting myself.

This didn't stop my mind from going to places I'd rather not speak of, but my body was rested enough and this sufficed. If this had been a test of my will, my will to do _nothing_ I was mostly successful, except for those moments when I paced and cursed and kicked at whatever piece of furniture was unlucky enough to be in my path.

Hours passed. I sat as a man possessed, struggling against the demon inside that was howling for release. The pain of _not knowing_ was almost too much to bear and I started having whispered conversations with my absent Watson, ones I knew he couldn't possibly hear.

Such small comfort, so gratefully exploited.

Heedless of my surroundings, I gave short and curt orders, telling Watson to be calm for his hot temper could be the ruin of him. Instructed him to observe, to record if he could and somehow ... somehow ... this would be our salvation. I begged him to rest and care for himself, to not let Moriarty play with his heart, as that was the monster's great joy - to destroy all that was kind and good in the human soul.

Lighting a pipe, I closed my eyes and kept whispering, not caring who might see me and think me mad. "Most of all, don't worry, my dearest friend. I'll be there soon."

The doorbell rang. I allowed Mrs. Hudson to answer it, knowing they would not try their luck with our Nanny. It was only a moment later she came up the stairs, note in hand. Thankfully, she was used to my strange hours of correspondence and handed it to me with little more than a knowing nod.

I stared at the outside of the letter, making sure there were no clues I could glean from it that might be destroyed by careless handling. Not much luck of that as Moriarty was very clever but I wasn't about to take any chances. I took a single deep puff on the pipe and flipped it open.

Inside was a colored sketch of a piece of jewelry with an inscription scrawled beneath.

_The receipt of this equals one visit._

I stared at the portrait of the jewel. Eight large points of diamonds, four and a half by four inches with four greater and four lesser stones surrounding a center cross of rubies and a trefoil of emeralds encircled by the words _Quis Separabit_ in rose diamonds.

I'd seen enough. Briskly, I folded the paper in half and stuffed it into the pocket of my robe.

A child's errand, actually. The piece was easily found, if not so easily obtained. But Moriarty had underestimated me yet again, as I had no compunctions about stealing a small collection of precious stones to regain Watson.

Even if that small collection was better known as the Crown Jewel of Ireland.

~*~

to be continued in Part Three ...

Thanks to all my reviewers. I appreciate the comments.


	3. Chapter 3

The Circular Room - Chapter Three

~*~

_*Holmes POV_*

The ancient Norman design of Dublin Castle was specifically geared against invasion.

Perhaps if I'd been a Saxon partisan, of fiery temper and rusty armor, I wouldn't have gotten very far. But the three disguises I'd designed for my minor intrusion - a vicar's robe, a maid's outfit and a guard's uniform, all of them easily interchangeable - gave me a greater chance of success than any axe or mail could have.

Normally, I'm not a believer in chance, but I'll admit luck was with me when I learned from a local carpenter that the safe holding the royal jewels was too wide to be placed in the strongroom built for the purpose of protecting them.

The Officer of the Arms had placed the safe in his relatively unguarded office and it was there I entered, after several hours spent as a guard, a vicar, then the cleaning lady assigned for the night. It took me eight minutes to break into the safe, a distressing amount time as I've broken into most others in under three.

The Crown Jewels, consisting of two pieces, were the only items sitting inside. While Moriarty had requested only the Grand Master Diamond Star, I felt it prudent to take them both, to guard against his demanding I perform the same feat twice as well as to divert any questions as to why one was gone, but not the other.

Leaving was more difficult than entering. Arguing my way out, as a vicar on a mission to visit a dying woman was questioned, but in the end, successful. The jewels felt heavy against my breast but I was not tormented by guilt. The Irish populace wouldn't protest too heartily against the disappearance of such an oppressive symbol and our dear sovereign had enough other shiny baubles to keep her happy for many years to come.

I wore my own clothes on the way back to London via a series of hired carriages, ferries and train cars. No one questioned the midnight rides of Sherlock Holmes, if anything, my appearance on Bakers Street a mere seven hours after the theft gave me a stronger alibi than any bribe ever could.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her sour soul, let me in without question and fed me soup, wondering aloud where her dear Doctor Watson could possibly be. I told her not to worry, that he was no doubt detained on some dire medical case and would be back anon.

She stared at me, her narrow eyes more observant than most others. "You'd best make sure he doesn't get too caught up in this case," she warned. "Saving the world is all well and good, but he's of little use to anyone if he doesn't take care of himself."

I took a short sip of soup before pushing it away. "Don't worry, Nanny. I'll take care of him, for him. How is that?"

"God help him," she said, but her face relaxed. "You look like you need a good night's sleep, Mr. Holmes. I can make you a cup of scalded milk to put by your bedside. That will help you rest."

I nodded. "Doctor Watson would approve," I said and she strode off happily. It was certainly my overactive imagination, but the jewels felt burning hot against my skin and I itched to be rid of them. Once the theft was reported, Moriarty would come calling - most likely within a few hours - and I could then get to the heart of the matter.

Which was getting Watson back, come hell or death.

xXx

_*Watson's POV_*

Moriarty didn't return the next morning as promised.

Nothing made me gladder, as that gave me a chance to continue my fevered inventory of the room. Sliding along the lower borders of my elegant cell, I quietly cracked pieces of paint and plaster away from the walls, tucking the slivers between the pages of my notebook. Climbing atop chairs, I felt along the ceiling noting air vents placed every few feet, their presence guaranteeing I wouldn't suffocate to death any time soon.

I made crude illustrations and catalogued the books on the shelves, most of them worn tomes purchased from the penny stalls and placed there for decoration and little else. A chill ran through me at this discovery. What sort of man would go to this kind of trouble for the congenial appearance of a prison?

An uncomfortable realization hit me. Holmes would have done the same, if he were feeling particularly nefarious or had lost his mind all together. It then occurred to me that a possible reason Holmes and Moriarty were such deadly enemies was that they were just alike enough to matter to one another, to remind each other of their potential places in the drama that was the criminal underworld of England.

There but for the grace of God had never had a better description of such a situation and I paused in my recording, wondering if I should mention my epiphany on paper. Thinking better of it, I refrained, but the unhappy thought refused to leave my mind.

Eventually, two of Moriarty's minions brought in supper. Atop the covered plate sat a late edition of the _Times_ which had a huge headline about a theft of the Crown Jewels of Ireland, discovered just hours before printing. I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the news. It was an outrageously brazen theft even in light of all the cases I'd seen while working with Holmes.

I read the paper and ignored their hasty exit, one of them holding a gun in their grimy hand. I held no illusions about escape and even if I did, I'd pick my time and my place, on my own terms.

The theft of the jewels appeared to be a comedy of errors. Various accounts of a safe that was too big for its vault and too many men having too many keys and the hairs rose on the back of my neck when I read about a unknown vicar arguing his way out of the castle courtyard in the middle of the night, claiming he had an unknown dying woman to attend to.

This all sounded horribly familiar, but I folded the paper with a determined hand. I needed to focus on my current situation. The lost royal gems would find their way home eventually, I'd be fortunate if I could claim the same.

Unfortunately, my reprieve from my host didn't last long enough.

Moriarty entered from yet another unseen point in the room and I quickly tucked my notebook away, terrified that it would be discovered. I sipped at ice cold tea and re-read the front page of the _Times_, feigning utter indifference to my situation.

"That's quite the feat, stealing such a treasure," he said, taking the seat across from me. "Not many men could have accomplished it."

I turned to another page and shrugged. "Anyone can do anything they set their mind to."

He tilted his head to one side, reminding me very much of a crow. "Do you really believe that, Doctor Watson? Is it so easy to run off with the property of kings?"

"It's a physical item, placed in a particular place, therefore I don't see why it would be such an astonishing feat to remove it from that set place," I replied, vaguely aware of how much like Holmes I sounded. "Nothing static cannot be, eventually, moved while something that moves may or may not find itself one day static."

His vulture-eyes widened and I found myself unconsciously backing away from his stare. "He's taught you very well. Now we are getting somewhere."

I swallowed hard, suddenly terrified I'd given away something essential. "No one has taught me anything. It's not that difficult a conclusion to come to."

"Stop lying to me. You are his student as well as his teacher. It's what he could possibly learn from you that I can't comprehend," he growled, his composure slipping. His mouth twitched once and he calmed again, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Not that it's of any great concern. Now, Doctor, give me your best guess. Who do you think stole the Irish Crown Jewels?"

"I'd have to struggle to care."

"What would you say if I told you I knew who stole them?"

I snorted disdainfully. "I couldn't be less surprised."

He smiled at me, a wretched, death's-head smile. "Even if I informed you that the man who took them was your indifferent flatmate, Mr. Holmes? And the reason he took them was because I'd promised him a single visit with you, at the time and place of my choosing?" The horrible smile widened. "My, how you pale, dear doctor. What, you don't believe such a tale? Why, here, look ... tell me what you see."

He pulled out a black chamois cloth from his jacket and unfolded it, revealing the very jewel the government was offering a fortune in reward for. My stomach lurched and I shoved myself away from the shining proof he held in his spidery hand as if it were a brandished knife. I tried to think of a response ... any response ... and found I could not speak.

Moriarty tucked the gem away neatly. "I wonder what else I could make him do," he mused. "Perhaps an assassination of some sort. Holmes would make an excellent killer, I think."

His words cut into my heart like a sword and that's when I lunged for him across the table, my own safety be damned. Enraged, I reached for Moriarty's throat but he rolled away with infuriating ease. Some of his thugs entered the room, as if they'd been waiting for the moment when I snapped.

It took them a long time to subdue me. I don't remember feeling their blows any more than if they'd been dealt with feathers but in the end, I was left lying the floor, gasping for air, my body ... and heart ... dearly injured.

He bent over me, his face unnervingly close. "I will know your worth, Doctor," he hissed. "Holmes will tell me, whether he wants to or not."

I returned his glare, feeling the warm drip of blood on my lips. "And what of our promised visit? Or is that just another deceit of the unimaginative Professor Moriarty?"

He straightened up, his mouth twisted in a semblance of an honest smile. "I do not lie, Doctor. I never lie unless there is an immediate objective to be gained as that would be pointless. You will have your visit, but rest assured, it will be more for my benefit than yours."

_We'll see about that,_ I thought bitterly. I closed my eyes and groaned in pain, a little more loudly than was necessary, waiting until they were satisfied with their handiwork and left me alone.

I hadn't the heart or the strength to pull myself up onto the bed. I lay on the floor instead, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to stop my emotions from overwhelming me.

Of course Holmes had done Moriarty's bidding. Of course he'd weighed the value of some stones against my life.

What he hadn't weighed was the priceless worth of his integrity. How could he without me there to remind him of these things, those invaluable lessons Holmes' genius so often crowded out from his conscious mind, dull morals sometimes lost in the maddening swirl of his brilliance? So often he called me his Boswell, which was, in other words, his conscience. That was my gift to him, a man who had everything but balance, who knew everything but was often unsure of which knowledge to value most.

Yet, during his time of greatest need, I could not be there.

In my life, I'd never felt more a failure than I did at that moment. If Moriarty kept true to his word and I would get to speak to Holmes again, perhaps I could lead him away from this disastrous path. Convince him I'd rather be held here forever than see him turn into one of the very creatures he despised. That I'd rather die than see him lose his soul.

Or perhaps ...

I touched my fingers to my precious notebook and thus began the long wait for Moriarty to keep his word to let me see Homes one more - perhaps final - time.

~*~

_to be continued in Part Four..._

_a/n: The theft of the Irish Crown Jewels is an actual historical mystery, one that was never solved. Special thanks to everyone who has left reviews, I appreciate them so much._


	4. Chapter 4

The Circular Room - Chapter Four

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

Moriarty had dared to come himself to claim the jewel I'd stolen.

I'd counted this among the possibilities but the sheer gall of it made me exhale just the slightest bit harder. Fortunately, once his presence was accepted and accounted for, I fell back into my usual deductive mode.

We sat in my room, our chairs opposite from one another. I examined him from head to foot, my eyes barely moving. With every inhale, I concentrated on the scents surrounding him, I cataloged every spec of dirt that clung to his person and carefully watched his eyes for each inevitable slip.

There was less to go on that I would have liked. But whatever there was, I stored away.

"You understand that if I'm detained a minute past the time I told them I would return ..." he began and grinned at my scoffing response.

"As if I'd want to keep you here any longer than absolutely necessary." I tossed him the jewel and he caught it easily. I tilted my head toward Gladstone, who was deep asleep by the fire. "Your odor is making my dog ill."

He put the treasure away without an examination. "Your doctor claims you are nothing but a financial convenience. I'm half expecting him to deny you three times before the cock crows."

"Where is my cut?" I demanded, ignoring his words as best I could. "Or are Moriarty's promises as empty as his logic?" With as careless an air I could feign, I lit my pipe, making sure to puff it into the most irritating cloud of smoke I could manage. "Give me the time and place of my meeting with Watson or perhaps you'll discover I enjoy the element deadly surprise more than old habits."

"And now he's an 'old habit' to you," Moriarty chuckled and I swore to all gods above and devils below, I had never hated another human being more than I did at that moment. "How you both guard yourselves against the slightest intrusion." He waved a bony hand at me. "You are transparent, Holmes. You are dying, dying by inches to see your doctor again. You aren't sure whether you will try to save him in the first seconds of your reunion or bide your time until you are sure you can succeed. You are terrified of what you'll discover, yet you are straining at the bit to know all. You are lost without him." He leaned toward me, his cold eyes shining through the smoke. "He is your great secret, your hidden weapon and I have him. I will unlock him, I will open him and I will discover what possible potential he adds to the great machine that is Sherlock Holmes."

At this, I almost smiled. "So it's Watson you wanted all along, is it? Ah, poor professor, you are doomed to be thwarted. He is stronger and wiser than I could ever dream of being. He corrects me daily; he will certainly confound you to death." I puffed on my pipe just that more violently, my rancid shag tobacco smoke fuming unchecked throughout the room. "I fear nothing in this world save Watson's displeasure. You've earned it in spades. If I were a religious man, I'd pray for you."

There, finally, his mouth turned down with extreme displeasure. "You mistake base affection for perceived wisdom. He has not the mind you or I have."

"That is his great strength, all base affections aside," I hissed while smiling, I'm sure, like a madman. "Now give me what you've promised or I swear to you I will tear this continent apart and lay the waste at your feet."

Frowning, he flicked a small piece of paper at me. I caught it neatly and crushed it in my fist. My blood was boiling; it took every ounce of control I had not to strangle him. "Now get out," I ordered. "Before your malodorous presence kills my poor pet and everyone within a league of this house."

Moriarty rose, but not before lobbing off one parting shot. "It's a pity, Holmes, that you believe your deep attachment to this man is unrequited in its scope. You might end up surprised by the lengths he is willing to go for what he perceives are your best interests. You may claim you'll tear apart a continent, but alas, he might go even further."

Fear, as cold as ice, raced down my spine. I continued to puff on my pipe, hoping it obscured my terror. "Get out," I rasped and he obeyed me, closing the door in his wake, but not before bestowing the grimmest of silent smiles upon me.

It took me a long time to regain my composure. Hands trembling, I unfolded the paper he gave me, memorizing the words as I read. _Friday, midnight, London Bridge. A carriage will be waiting_.

_Good enough_, I thought. I had what I needed and if I didn't, then by hells, I would get it.

God help those who would stand in my way.

xXx

_*Watson's POV*_

I'd been left a pitcher of water by my bedside and once I'd taken a drink, I ended up sleeping more deeply than I had the other nights trapped in Moriarty's room. Longer too, possibly, but it was impossible to tell as Moriarty had deemed it necessary to give me just about everything except a working clock.

I wondered vaguely if I'd been drugged. It didn't take me long to decide I didn't care -- a few hours of respite from my prison's torture was worth the price paid.

Disoriented and feeling decidedly hungover, not to mention sore from my encounter with Moriarty' henchmen, I decided to wash everywhere, as best I could with the cold water and sliver of hard soap that was available to me on the wash stand. Oddly enough, there was a fresh set of clothes laid out on the dining chairs and I changed into them hesitantly, wondering why I'd been so gifted.

I made doubly sure my precious notebook was securely transferred into the inner pocket of my new jacket. It had become a lifeline of sorts in the past few days; I'd be damned if it ended up in the wash or the incinerator.

There was little to do after that. The ragged books lining the shelves were of no interest and I hadn't received another newspaper with my breakfast. I guess it was no use to Moriarty to have me reading things that didn't concern my situation. I was torn between gratitude that Holmes hadn't been inspired to commit any more acts of treason in my name and annoyance that I had nothing of substance to entertain myself with.

There were a few blank pages left in my notebook. I had no illustrations left to fill them with, the room held only a limited amount of curiosities, all of which I'd described in exacting detail so many pages before. I thought about writing more personal reflections and began scribbling, hardly knowing what I was recording. Maybe it's the idea of impending doom that inspires poetry in men, I don't know.

All I knew for certain was that I was sick at heart and my flesh hurt more than I'd care to admit.

I wrote all these personal and self-indulgent cares down, along with my wishes for Holmes, a fond prayer that he'd be all right should I not come out of this alive. I suggested that he'd be better off without me even, at least one of his worries would be put to rest for good.

Never again would he have the temptation to stray from the righteous path he'd chosen. He'd be as he always was meant to be - an unnaturally brilliant man, using his unique gifts for the good of the world.

I wrote some other things as well, most of them ridiculously sentimental and I even footnoted them as items Holmes might want to skip. _So great is my care for you, dearest friend_, I joked, even as I realized he might not see it as a jest.

I told him that he was the best, most extraordinary, person I'd ever had the good fortune to know. That my friendship and pride in him knew no bounds. That he was a sloppy, ridiculous fellow and I couldn't have chosen a worse - no, better - flatmate if I'd tried.

It was with such levity I tried to leave what might have been my final thoughts for him. I didn't bother to ask him to care for Gladstone, I had complete confidence he'd treat the poor creature with the same odd consideration he'd always shown.

Finally, the notebook ran out of space and I placed it reverently it in the inner pocket of my suit coat. Mournfully, I put my pencil away. I sat there for an indeterminate time wearing ill-fitting, if clean, clothes, wondering what could possibly happen next.

As in in answer, four of Moriarty's henchmen entered the room, hauling me up and manacling me, this time with my hands in front. A blindfold was placed over my eyes, but no gag as I was led outside into delightfully fresh and cool air. I felt no sunlight on my face and so assumed it was nighttime, but I wasn't sure.

I breathed in deeply and gratefully nonetheless, even as I was placed in another carriage that hurtled over the cobblestones at what would normally be a frightening speed. Eventually I smelled the river, heard the flowing of the water and was for a moment afraid I was being taken to be drowned.

But no, we turned away from the Thames and I was hustled out of the carriage, eventually stumbling through a doorway, the smell of wet rope and oak crates filling my nostrils. The blindfold was ripped away and I had to blink to see where I was. A riverside storage area, not far from the water and there were a half-dozen of Moriarty's men lined against the walls, a few oil lamps lit in the corners and ...

Holmes. Sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the room and staring at me with wide, wild eyes, as if I were an apparition from beyond.

I'm not certain, but surely my expression, God helps us both, was no different than his.

xXx

continued in Chapter Five ...

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	5. Chapter 5

The Circular Room - Chapter Five

xXx

_*Watson's POV*_

There was a chair sitting opposite of Holmes and I moved toward it like a man in a dream, keenly aware of a half-dozen sets of eyes following my every move, their ears straining for any word.

Inhaling harshly, I tuned them out of my thoughts and concentrated on Holmes to the exclusion of everything else. To the disinterested eye he looked as he typically did, elegantly rumpled and alert, the great consulting detective on yet another case.

But I alone could see that he was distraught. His cheeks were salt pale and the fine bones of his face were more prominent, testifying to a distinct lack of appetite. He looked like a man lost and there was an air of shame surrounding him, as if he could tell I knew about the crime he'd committed for my sake.

His eyes examined me minutely, searching desperately for clues of any kind and I realized that Moriarty's gift of new clothes were nothing more than a foil against this sort of inspection. For the first time, Holmes appeared thwarted and within those eyes I could see traces of fury and sorrow, over-excitement and exhaustion.

My throat tightened and I forgot my own cares, too caught up in Holmes' silent plea, expressed only through a look.

_Give me something,_ his eyes told me plainly. _Say something. Help me, please._

But what could I say? What could I give to him, in front of all these brutes who would surely end this meeting the moment they felt Moriarty's interests were threatened? I had nothing I could share with him.

Nothing, except ...

My heart skipped a beat as the answer made itself clear. With determination, I swept up Holmes' hands in my own still-manacled ones and squeezed them. "It's good to see you, old friend," I said, hoping no one would hear the waver in my voice. I opened up Holmes' fingers and rubbed his palm. "My God, your hands are like blocks of ice."

Holmes kept very still, his hand open. "It's cold in here. Our host is rude beyond belief."

I kept my gaze fixed on Holmes' face and began to tap my index finger against his palm. Morse code, something I remembered from my days in the military and was sure Holmes knew as well.

Dot. Two dashes and another dot was the letter 'P". Followed by an 'o' and a 'c', a 'k' and then ...

Unexpectedly, Holmes yanked his hand away and drew me into an uncharacteristic embrace. "I have missed you very much, Watson," he murmured and I nearly cried out in frustration. He let me go almost immediately and sat back in his chair, suddenly looking much calmer.

I, however, was not as calm. Of all the moments for the man to become sentimental he would have to pick the absolute worst one. "I have missed you as well," I sighed, abandoning my admittedly foolish plan. "Holmes, before we part, there are some things I'd like to say. That day on Baker Street, I left you without a word. I'd rather not do that now as I may not get another chance to ..."

He cut me off brusquely. "No. Whatever you have to say you'll save for when you are back in our apartments. You can lecture me and rail at will before regaling me with the most wretched sentiments you can devise. I'll pull out my violin to accompany you and Gladstone's howls will complete the scene. But only once you are home. You must wait until that day or not at all."

"That day might not come," I returned quietly.

"It will come," he said to me, his voice like steel. "I will make it come."

"At what price?" I asked, feeling more helpless than I ever had, even during my darkest hours on the battlefield. "I beg of you, Holmes. Do not lose yourself in this madness. You're already treading on the razor's edge. Stop where you are and know that whatever promises Moriarty makes to you, the offerings are not worth it. Nothing is worth selling your soul for, especially not my safety."

His mouth set into a hard line. "I will do whatever I deem is necessary. All I need you to do is stay well for a short time longer. Surely you can manage that, Mother Hen."

How like Holmes to anger me during what were likely our last moments together. "You are impossible. Here I am trying to save _you_ from yourself and all you can do is show me once and for all that you are the most stubborn fool that's ever lived."

Holmes shrugged. "My apologies. And here I thought we could have a nice chat." He leaned back further, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Perhaps I should go."

"Then go. Maybe this is a fitting way for us to part," I replied thickly, my anger melting into grief as all my hopes fled. "But if you love me, even a little, you'll consider what I've said."

The most extraordinary expression crossed his face. His tone softened "If you love _me_, you'll keep yourself well. That is all I ask. No more and certainly no less. Now, you'll forgive me if I don't say good-bye, Watson. You well know I don't believe in such mindless salutations."

Holmes rose and made an impatient gesture at one of the men, who looked at us with confusion and consternation. No doubt he'd been expecting more to report to his master than a ridiculous row. He led Holmes out with a glance back at me and I watched as they left, feeling wretchedly hollow, empty of everything except for despair.

The trip back to my prison passed by in a miserable blur. The blindfold was damp when they pulled it off and once unshackled I fell onto the bed, struggling to compose myself. Automatically, I reached into my pocket to retrieve my notebook, to find some comfort in my little lifeline when I discovered ...

It was gone.

I felt for it again, stretching my fingers through the pocket, then into the other just in case. I gasped and sat up suddenly, hardly daring to breathe. The notebook was nowhere to be found and I kept checking, making sure once ... twice ... three times and no, it was not there, it must have been taken from me and Holmes ...

Holmes had it. He'd figured out my message in an instant and picked my pocket as cleanly as the best of thieves.

I began to laugh softly, wondering how I could have ever doubted him.

Hope dawned like a sunrise and I made a silent promise to abide by his words and keep as well as I could, for surely not all was lost now that we had this slightest of chances.

I could only pray he'd abide by my wishes as well.

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

They dropped me back at the bridge's end and I wasted no time returning to Baker Street, my hand never leaving my pocket. Once arrived, I locked my study door and drew the curtains shut, not taking a chance that any of _his_ minions might be lurking in the shadows. Beneath the burning lamp, I retrieved the notebook and nearly cried out with joy at the title.

_The Circular Prison. A Description._

My brave and brilliant Watson. Carefully, so carefully, I turned the pages, seeing bits of plaster and threads from linens and carpets and I could hardly breathe because I finally had the means within my grasp to find him.

It would be difficult, but no longer impossible.

I continued to gingerly go through each entry as if it were a treasure map. There were drawings as well as measurements and my good doctor was nothing if not thorough. Barely able to contain myself, I kept reading, preparing for a full night of close examination.

When I finally came to the end, there were no more descriptions, only earnest words from Watson himself regarding our friendship and I hastily flipped back to the beginning. It wasn't that I didn't long to read them but as I swore to Watson, this was not the time for such thoughts.

Only one he was safely here again would I dare to peruse those words, if at all. Better to hear his voice, to see his dear face before me than to wallow in written sentiments. Perhaps ... perhaps someday, I would have the courage to look.

But not at this juncture. There was work to be done.

xXx

continued in Part Six ...

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	6. Chapter 6

The Circular Room - Chapter Six

xXx

_*Watson's POV*_

That next morning, I attacked my breakfast with an increased appetite. The eggs were cold, the tea weak, the ham nearly unidentifiable and I ate of it heartily, still of better cheer than I could remember being in many a day.

Unlike Moriarty who entered the room scowling, staring at me as if I were an unruly mathematical equation intent on eluding his grasp. He took the seat opposite of me, his shoulders scrunched up as if the very act of sitting irritated him. Perhaps I should have been frightened but I was in too good a mood to feel much fear and this seemed to annoy him more than anything else.

He glared at me from across the table. "Holmes certainly has an unusual way of expressing his concern."

I tucked another slice of ham into my mouth and chewed it. "He's always been a bit of an ass," I shrugged. "Geniuses have little time for developing proper social skills. Not that I'd have to explain this fact to _you_, I'm sure."

He was not amused. "He claimed he'll do what he's told, in spite of your protests."

"He claimed he'll do what he deems necessary," I corrected, pouring sugar into my tea. "I'll leave you to deduce the difference."

"You're very confident today," he said slowly, leaning back in the chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "On the surface, nothing has changed since your meeting with Holmes. In fact, you left disappointed rather than otherwise so I have to assume something has transpired between Holmes' departure last night and this morning. Look at how well you're eating."

Then the fear came, rolling in sparks down my spine. I sipped at the tea which stuck in my throat. "Maybe I've come to the conclusion that it's better to die with a full stomach than pine for a rescue that will never come."

"Do you think you're going to die, Doctor Watson?"

"I have no idea," I said, pushing my plate away, my gut suddenly roiling. "I'd say the odds were tilting in that direction."

"The odds, yes. You are a habitual gambler. I was surprised by that, it's such a foolhardy vice, unbecoming of an educated man. You exhibit a self-destructive streak, I've noticed. No doubt borne of some guilt lingering over your unlikely survival at Maiwand." Slowly, he tapped his index fingers together. "Your exaggerated gloating regarding your sexual conquests is little more than I'd expect from any dullard, which makes me wonder doubly what Holmes finds useful in you, except that you are convenient for tending to his wounds or mothering him through his drug-addled hazes. Yet, I see there is more. Much more. Speaking of habits, I must also wonder what you see in him. Maybe you have a certain _fondness_ for geniuses of any stripe?"

My breath caught viciously in my throat, sending my breakfast perilously close to being returned to my plate. "How do you know these things?"

"Are you surprised that I've been studying you as closely as I have Holmes? Only a fool could ignore your striking influence over him, how it seems to aid and invigorate him in his work. An intelligent man would devise a way to harness that advantage." Leaning forward, his fingers found their way to my chin, grasping it in a vise-like hold, making me gasp. "Now that you see there is no exit from this situation, are you prepared to take another wager, one that will tilt the odds back into a more favorable position?"

I tried to pull away from his touch, but his fingers were stronger than my ability to escape them. "What is it you want?"

His face loomed in far too closely for my liking. "You. Or more precisely, a partner in my work and I've determined that what's good enough for Sherlock Holmes is good enough for me. Now that you've seen that he's lacking in morals as well as sobriety, perhaps you'll indulge your craving for displays of intellectual superiority somewhere more productive. You might find an association with me not only stimulating, but profitable. I can assure you that you'll never lose another street-side bet again, at the very least."

With a violent yank of my head, I freed myself from his bruising grip. "You're mad. I'd sooner partner myself with the devil. Holmes may have made some mistakes under duress but he is nowhere near the monster you are."

"Are you sure?" Moriarty asked, his voice low. "What if I tell you that soon you will read another _interesting_ newspaper article, one that will forever enlighten you to the true nature of your not-exactly-affectionate friend, Sherlock Holmes?"

I didn't reply. I didn't know _how_ to reply. With a thin grin, he snagged the last piece of ham and swallowed it whole, like a shark, before slipping through the wall. I felt myself shrinking back, uncertain and deeply afraid - not only for myself. For Holmes. For all we knew and cherished.

For London itself.

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

The fresh paint decorating the walls of Watson's prison consisted of eighty-percent liquid base, ten percent binder, six-percent colorant and one-half percent pure lead, with minimal proportions of various pigments, one of them unique in composition. A high-quality lacquer used in repairs to the halls of Parliament which tells me that this paint was supplied by a government contractor, of which there are only two actively producing in the city of London.

The rug was an inexpensive, generic textile also common in public buildings. Its color was the product of a dye found only in bulk, not for private or artistic use.

The size of the room had been measured as eighteen feet in diameter, twelve feet in height. To place a newly created room of this size in another building would account for the surrounding area to be of substantial size, with few, if any, pre-existing rooms. A warehouse or abandoned public building of some type is the only reasonable conclusion. The room itself would have to have been made by skilled carpenters and workmen who no doubt met with unnatural ends not long after the task was completed.

Discontinued text books lined the walls, speaking of a used book seller nearby, relatively close to an educational institution.

With a broad sweep of my arm, I cleared the desk of everything but my well-worn map of London. Running my hands over the paper, I muttered the names of each area, one after the other, followed by the streets, visions of every corner running through my mind as clearly as any daguerreotype.

Too many, too much and yet, I knew I was close, circling five possible areas with my finger. Which one had all the requirements ... which ... which ...

"Mr. Holmes?"

I grit my teeth tightly, forcing back a yell of annoyance. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?"

She stepped past the pile littered around me and handed me a folded note. "The same gentleman who came by the other night has brought you another letter." She sighed at the mess. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

I accepted the note without looking. "No. Thank you."

She sighed again sadly, closing the door gently behind her as if she were leaving a wake. Obviously, she was more observant than I gave her credit for. Increasingly agitated, I forced myself to calmness, breathing in slow rhythm before unfolding Moriarty's note and reading his careless scrawl.

_Something worth selling your soul for._

_This life for the Mother Hen's. Your choice._

_Proof in the Times by Monday._

Perhaps it was foolish but his use of Watson's nickname infuriated me. I flung the letter down and threw myself back in my chair, fists clenched. A loose bit of paper floated out, a newspaper clipping and I winced to see Inspector Lestrade's narrow eyes staring back at me.

Lestrade. He wanted me to kill Lestrade in exchange for Watson' life.

I shut my eyes. Sixteen hours until Monday. Evidence of death must obtained by the newspapers at least six hours before. Ten hours. Not much time. Not enough time to find Watson before the deadline. Therefore ...

I rose and pulled on my coat. Wrote out a short note and pressed it to the door with a bit of sticking paper before locking my study shut. _Do Not Disturb_, it said and I left the house silently, unseen by any eyes other than a deity I never truly believed in.

A deity that, if real, no longer believed in me.

xXx

continued in Chapter Seven

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	7. Chapter 7

The Circular Room - Chapter Seven

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

Many times before I have witnessed this scene but rarely as a hidden observer, watching from a safe distance as a photographer leaned in to bear witness to the scene laid out before him on the cold ground.

*_flash_*

The dark rivulets that flowed down Lestrade's face were half-suspended off of his chin, already drying. His hat had fallen off, his hair was matted with more crimson evidence and the photographer took another picture, just to be sure he'd missed nothing.

*_flash_*

I could rest assured this news would be disseminated that night. The death of an Inspector of Scotland Yard was perhaps the news of the decade; the fact that his murderer would never be caught will likely be the news of the century.

I had weighed my options, pro and con. I had gone over each and every scenario in the most excruciating detail. I had even prayed, without much faith in the result. In the end ...

This was the only logical choice.

xXx

*_Watson's POV_*

For an entire restless night, I paced my prison, my thoughts turning in circles like the walls that entrapped me. More than once I wondered if I'd go insane in there, waiting ... wondering if Holmes would perform another mercenary act on the whim of Moriarty, with some hope of extracting me from this hellhole alive.

Vain hope, for my denial of the professor's offer surely sealed my fate. Moriarty must have known this in his heart, if such a thing existed, there would be nothing that could ever change my mind. He had no reason to keep me alive, other than to taunt Holmes and how long could the amusement in that last?

Especially since he already suspected we had gained some, admittedly slight, advantage.

I tried to sit, found it impossible to keep still, so I rose and returned to pacing, my fingers skittering over my scalp with nervous strokes. Not knowing the day, the time ... it was maddening and I nearly jumped out of my skin when the breakfast tray arrived, its deliverer smirking at me from the far side of the room before exiting.

It was the usual tray, two inverted white plates with a tea cup and small pot and ...

A folded newspaper sitting on top.

My heart pounded wildly in my chest at the sight. Shaking, I edged toward the table and the newspaper, not wanting to look and knowing I had to. It fell open at the lightest touch and I saw the headline.

_"Scotland Yard Inspector Murdered! Killer Still On the Loose!_"

My God. It was Lestrade. A photograph of Lestrade's corpse covered the front page and the world around me went white. The paper dropped from my hand and I slid to the floor, trying to catch my faltering breath.

Did Moriarty truly inspire Holmes to indulge in such murderous depravity? Not only killing a man, but a compatriot ... a _friend_ in cold blood for all the world to see? Could Holmes really do such a thing? Was it possible?

The answer came to me immediately.

No. I didn't believe it. I _would not_ believe it.

Pushing my deep horror aside, I picked the paper up and examined the photograph as dispassionately as I could. It was certainly Lestrade, the man was unique in his looks and while the gore was quite impressive - supposedly it was a blow to the head that did him in - there was something not quite right about how it was splayed over his skin. It was thicker than blood should have been as well as shiny and not gritty, as it would be after exposure to air.

His eyes were squinted shut and another red flag raised itself in my mind. His mouth was also completely closed and I must say I'd never seen a corpse that had a mouth that wasn't just the slightest bit open. In fact, Lestrade's lips were pressed in a relaxed line and this more than anything told me that things were not quite what they seemed.

To an untrained eye, he looked dead enough. To man used to dealing with bodies, I felt confident this was a hoax. I don't think I ever spent as much time thanking God as I did in those wonderful moments of relief, knowing that Holmes hadn't sunk to a level from which there was no return.

But what of Moriarty? Would he be fooled? Perhaps, at first, but not for very long as the man had spies everywhere and one of them would surely alert him to the fact that the Inspector was alive and well. And once that had happened ...

It was at that moment I decided to try and make my escape, come hell or death. I couldn't stay another night there and if Holmes hadn't found me by now, then it was probable he wouldn't be able to do so in time. If I failed, at least Holmes would be free, which was comfort enough.

Determined, I placed a chair in the middle of the room and waited for the breakfast tray to be retrieved, as it usually was an hour or so after delivery. I focused my concentration all the indignities Holmes and I had suffered over the past many days, on how evil my captors were and how much I despised them.

By the time the two minions had entered the room, they was completely unprepared for my attack. One was taken out with the chair and on the other I used the only weapon I had available ... my pencil, which I plunged into his neck without hesitation, piercing his windpipe and so both were disabled.

It was a fortuitous start, but in vain, as they had not been alone in their entrance. Moriarty had come in from another door - no doubt to taunt me with Holmes fall - and I was quickly subdued by his other men, who looked shocked at my sudden rebellion.

Moriarty didn't look quite as surprised. Slowly, he bent over his stricken henchman and without so much as a blink, pulled the pencil from the writhing man's throat. He stared at it, his eyes filled with rage. "So. Tell me, Doctor Watson. Where is the notebook that goes with this instrument?"

"Where do you think it is?" I laughed, just a bit hysterically. "Don't you know the saying, Professor? About a certain item being mightier than the sword?"

The pencil snapped between his fingers. His face relaxed into an unreadable mask and I knew I was not long for this world. "It's a shame. You could have been a great man, you know. Instead, you are destined to be nothing more than a mere shadow that once crawled beneath the bright light of Sherlock Holmes."

I drew myself up proudly. "I can only hope that is the case. It is my honor and pleasure to be so, no matter what you've tried to turn him into," I replied, shaking off the grip of my captors. "Now, prove yourself a man and end this."

A lazy smile curved Moriarty's mouth. "As you wish. Good-bye, Doctor Watson. I've learned about as much from you as I can."

I could have replied that I'd learned as much about him as he was worth. Moriarty was nothing more than a cruel monster who, in spite of everything, had still been foiled by Holmes and myself, working together. Perhaps it was a Pyrrhic victory, but for me at that moment, it was enough and I merely turned my back toward him, happy to never see his awful face again.

Once they'd left the room for what I felt confidently was the last time, I lay down on the bed and waited patiently for whatever ending he had devised for me, likely since the day I'd been brought there.

I closed my eyes and thought about the home I'd never see again, about Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone ... about Holmes. _He will survive this_, I told myself, somewhat unconvincingly. _He is stronger than anyone else_ and I wondered vaguely if he'd read my last messages to him, tucked into the back of my final written work.

Through the high vents, tiny wisps of foul air - the unmistakable scent of a fire - started to seep into the room. I sniffed at the bitter smell, wondering for a moment if I were to die of smoke inhalation or being burnt alive. Either way, this was to be over soon enough. Resigned, I pushed all unhappy thoughts from my mind.

Instead, I thought about Holmes and smiled in spite of it all.

xXx

*_Holmes POV_*

"Have you found it yet?"

"Patience, my friend." I replied, skimming over my map of London. "We are down to two choices."

"You could have told me what was going on before it came to this," Lestrade grumbled, wiping smudged red streaks from his face. An ingenious concoction of my own, so close to blood in color and texture it was nearly indistinguishable, at least until tasted. "What the devil is in this stuff anyway? It's horribly sticky."

"Sweet syrup and red coloring. You can lick it off if you're hungry," I informed him, ignoring his grimace of distaste. "And you were not told because there was nothing you could have done except amuse Moriarty more than he already is and put Watson in greater danger, if that were possible."

"And now?" Lestrade gave up scrubbing at his cheeks and stared at me intently. "Do you think we'll be able find him? And if you don't mind me bringing up another little matter, how are we going to break the news that I'm not dead after all?"

"One, yes, we will be able to find him and secondly, I can't imagine that your clever return from the dead in pursuit of a master criminal will do anything but enhance your admittedly meagre reputation."

Lestrade frowned deeply. "Dr. Watson's lucky I like him."

"Indeed," I murmured, not really listening. Something was catching my attention; a large, recently abandoned building nestled in a less congested area of lower London. Close to a trade school that employed a book seller, one that turned out excellent building craftsmen, a mere half-league from one of Her Majesty's largest contractors ....

My breath caught. I jammed my finger to a point on the map. "Here. It's here."

Peering at the street name, Lestrade looked skeptical. "I hope you're right. Once we arrive, the jig is up. If we're wrong Moriarty will find out and ..." Wincing, he didn't finish the sentence.

"Moriarty will be running for his life in exactly ten minutes," I predicted briskly, grabbing Gladstone's lead from its customary spot on the wall. "Come here, boy," I commanded the bulldog, who immediately obeyed. "How would you like to help me find Watson?"

He barked and wagged his stump of a tail.

"Off we go then," I said, hooking the lead to his collar and motioning for Lestrade to follow. In front of the house were lined up over two dozen officers, an army of faces rigid with determination.

It seemed I wasn't the only one fond of Watson.

They followed me wordlessly, piling into the standing vehicles, waiting for my order. Pulling Gladstone in after me, I instructed the driver where to go and we took off, hurtling toward Watson's place of concealment, like an arrow from a bow.

An arrow, that hopefully, might also find its way burrowed into a certain professor's heart.

xXx

continued on Chapter Eight

Hee. I was a bad girl, yes. Glad you enjoyed the twist and kudos for guessing what Holmes would do. Thanks so much for your fabulous reviews, I love reading them, so feel free to drop me another. :D


	8. Chapter 8

The Circular Room - Chapter Eight

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

Six minutes en route to Watson's rescue, I heard the bells of multiple fire brigades clanging in the distance. My throat tightened and I cried out to the driver to move faster or I'd take over the reins myself.

The carriage jerked forward and sped ahead. I kept patient as well as I was able, knowing what I'd see once arrived.

Moriarty had set the building aflame from the far end, making the burn as slow and torturous and smokey as possible. Cursing, I jumped from the hansom, Gladstone hopping down after me. I headed toward the building, stopped momentarily by Lestrade's hard grip on my arm.

"You can't go in there!" he cried. "Let the fire squadrons do it."

I'm not sure what he saw in my face, but a single look was enough to make him let go. "Get the Maria ready," was all I said, taking off. Snatching off my cravat, I dunked it in one of the brigade's water buckets and wrapped it around my mouth before heading inside.

Once past the door, I put Gladstone in the lead. The brave fellow didn't hesitate, instead taking off as quickly as his stout body allowed when I ordered him to find Watson. Shouting encouragement, I let him sniff and pull me through hazy corridors, until we came to the center of what must have been the main area of the building.

There it was. Moriarty's contraption, two circular walls, sitting one within the other. The inner, as faceless as Watson described. The outer, a series of ordinary doors from which one could 'magically' enter the room from any point. A complicated series of locks were present, stretching all the way around and I coughed as I examined them, running from door to door while Gladstone barked and growled beside me.

Worried that trying them all would merely result in locking them more thoroughly, I banged on the wood instead. "Watson!" I cried, as I pounded. "Watson, I need your help! Watson!"

xXx

*_Watson's POV_*

"Watson! I need your help!"

I opened my eyes and squinted against the haze of smoke filling the room as I heard shouting. Surely the lessening oxygen was playing tricks with my mind. I coughed and strained to listen when I heard it again, along with a furious banging at the wall.

"Watson!"

Holmes. Holmes was outside and I leaped from the bed, coughing violently. "Holmes! Where are you?"

"Out here. You need to tell me where the last spot the room was opened from. Where the last door opened, Watson. Tell me!"

I struggled to think. The two men I'd taken down had entered from near the bookcases, but Moriarty had come in from behind me ... next to ... to ...

"Watson, we need to expedite this. It's a bit on fire out here."

"Here!" I cried, my lungs and eyes burning. I pounded my fist against the crack closest to the bed. "It was here, Holmes!"

Choking with every inhale, I waited, listening as Holmes worked on the door. In the background I could hear the sounds cracking wood and a dog's frightened howl. _We're both going to die_, I thought, terrified, more for Holmes than myself. "Holmes, just leave. Please!"

The wall burst open and Holmes stood there, his cravat wrapped over his mouth, his forehead smudged with soot, his mussed hair standing nearly straight on end and I swore had never seen a more beautiful sight. "Don't be ridiculous," he chided. "Come on then."

He grabbed me without another word, dragging me from the room. The smoke was much worse outside my prison and before I could protest, he ripped off his wet mask and slapped it over my face. We took off then as if being pulled by another force and I followed, not understanding how he could find his way through the choking smog.

Stumbling, blind and nearly at the end of my strength, Holmes virtually carried me as all around us, fiery beams began to collapse. The air was blisteringly hot and in the near distance there were cries of firemen, yelling warnings to one another as the structure slowly failed. I was certain that death was but seconds away when one stumble later I felt cold air against my skin.

I wanted to stop there, to gulp the sweetness into my aching lungs but Holmes continued to pull me until we were a good distance away. Finally, he allowed us to collapse in the street, the gravel wet and wonderful in my hands. I rolled onto my back and stared up into the sky, coughing and gasping, while beside me, Holmes did the same.

Between us crawled another familiar figure, wheezing loudly. "Gladstone," I rasped, torn between laughter and tears as I stroked his broad head. "Holmes, what have you done to my dog?"

"Our dog," Holmes coughed in reply. "It was experiment in how a lower center of gravity assists in the avoidance of smoke, as well as the use of bulldogs in fire rescue. Worked rather well, I'd say."

I turned to look at him and his weak smile was bright against his soot-blackened skin. "You look gorgeous, by the way," I said. With a grin, I reached out and grasped his hand, grateful for the responding squeeze. "Thank you, Holmes."

Not letting go of my hand, he closed his eyes and continued to try to clear his lungs. "I think I'm starting to appreciate the value of spending time in the fresh air, as you always claim."

Above me, Lestrade appeared, bending over, his face lined with concern. "I don't know which one of you lunatics has worried us more. It's good to see you, Doctor. Can you get up?"

"It's good to see you, Inspector and yes, give me a moment." Letting go of Holmes, I struggled into a sitting position, watching as the roof gave way, falling onto itself with a spark-filled crash.

It was gone. Just like that and I suddenly wondered if the entire ordeal had been nothing but a bad dream. Beside me, Holmes was propped up on his elbows, his expression grim. "How I wish he was in there."

Slowly, I shook my head. "Our luck is good, but not that good."

An officer came over and offered me a hand to my feet. I took it and allowed him to help me to the Maria where water and medical assistance were waiting. "Don't forget him," I said, tilting my head back toward Holmes. "If he puts up a fight, ignore it."

"I heard that, Watson. Who'll bring the dog home?" Holmes yelled back, still coughing between words. "I have no need for hospital."

"Grab him by the ears if you must," I instructed, climbing into the carriage. "Clarky will bring Gladstone home, Holmes. Don't be an ass."

Holmes was grabbed then, cursing and hacking and put across from me in the Maria. "You have no respect for my wishes at all. You are the worst of mother hens. A practical harpy," he grumbled and continued grumbling all the way to St. Luke's. "Merciless and unkind."

Smiling and silent, I lay on the bench, happy to listen to his complaints for as long as he cared to express them.

xXx

Holmes' bad behavior while in hospital guaranteed our stay would be short and unpleasant. We arrived at Baker Street early the next morning and I climbed the stairs with gratitude in every step.

Mrs. Hudson greeted me tearfully, embracing me as she would a long lost son and merely snorted at Holmes when he held his arms open for a hug. "I'll get the bath ready and tea," she said, wiping her eyes. "Tea and toast. Yes, we'll get that ready right now."

"Nanny hates me," Holmes whined when she was gone.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I sighed and tugged him up the stairs behind me.

My leg was aching badly by the time I made it to Holmes' study. He noticed my pain immediately and ceased his complaining, helping me ease off my jacket and coat, offering me the first turn at the bath which I gratefully accepted. "No, I'm not skipping mine," he muttered. "Yes, I heard what you were thinking."

I laughed at him and God, it was good to be home. "You can burn those," I said, pointing at the clothing which had been a 'gift' from Moriarty. "I don't want to see them ever again."

Holmes grimaced and dropped the coats by the fireplace. He sat down heavily in his chair, his expression turned grimly serious. "He's not done. I'm afraid he's only been inspired by this adventure."

A cold chill went down my back. "Holmes, maybe you could frighten me after my tea?"

Staring at his hands, he nodded. "I'm sorry. I ... I'm finding it hard to stop thinking." His gaze met mine, brown eyes overbright in the early morning light. "Watson. When the time comes, we need to have a talk. I've done some things ..."

With a tired wave, I cut him off. "Not today, my friend. I beg of you. I'm grateful for all you've done and whatever else must be discussed, let's enjoy this day first. Please, Holmes, for now, let's forget."

I heard a bitter chuckle. "As you wish. But forgetting only lasts as long as our minds allow. My foolish brain remembers far too much."

Mrs. Hudson entered at that moment, announcing the bath was ready. I struggled to my feet and limped toward the door, taking a second to gently squeeze Holmes' shoulder. "You are and will always be my greatest friend. If you must remember something, remember that."

Holmes stared off in the distance as his hand covered mine. "I didn't read your written farewell. You'll forgive me if I never do."

Biting back tears, I grinned weakly. "By all means, burn that too. I'll be glad to tell you in person, any time you please."

xXx

_*Holmes POV*_

I waited until Watson was out of the room, safely ensconced in the bath before dialing into the safe and pulling out the velvet box that had been figuring in my nightmares for the past five days.

It was still there, my great shame, the other half of the Irish Crown Jewels. I stared at the pin, it glittered like poison and I knew that Moriarty had only asked for one, knowing I would be forced to keep its brother as a reminder and a thorn.

Maybe I deserved as much. But I knew in my heart I'd do it again, do so much more if the situation had continued and this didn't frighten me as much as I believed it should have.

Without Watson, what good was an unblemished soul? What then if I hold onto him as other men cling to bibles and bits of bones, the relics of saints. Am I so different that I find myself drifting toward a dark sea without him? Am I wrong to fight against that current any way I can, even if it means I'm forced to dip my fingers into its unforgiving waters once in a while?

Watson forgave me. He _will_ forgive me again. It was more than I deserved.

For the time being, it was enough.

xXx

THE END

_A/N #1: That's all for this story, but a sequel to this is coming, with psychological fallout, angst and another mystery, called "The Country House". _

_A/N #2: You guys are the best reviewers ever. You've made me so happy and inspired. Thank you! It was a blast to write and have you enjoy the process with me. I appreciate it more than you know._


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